


Rebel Yell

by rispacooper



Series: The Slutty Boys 'Verse [6]
Category: Psych
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dress Up, Hand Jobs, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton wondering what to do when pursued by an amorous Shawn Spencer. I’m not really sure how I started out with angst porn and ended up here, but okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

While he’s listening to the far-off sound of fife and drums and staring up at the canopy of trees—and all the glaring, happy, _irritating_ sunshine—Carlton takes a minute to wonder if he’s ever going to be able to walk again. Judging from the fact that he can still feel his back—and the throbbing pain radiating up from around his ass—there’s no real damage. It’s too bad he won’t be able to say the same for the idiot who knocked him off his horse when he finds him.

Brigadier General Cartwright was supposed to get hit with the Rebel bullet a little farther along in the battle, get knocked from his horse, only to immediately spring to his feet and grab another horse. Carlton’s horse doesn’t appear to have stuck around, and instead of rallying behind their wounded general, the rest of the 11th Illinois were still finishing their skirmish and working their way toward the ridge where Carlton had been supposed to fall into a prearranged pile of hay.

He frowns up at the trees while he considers leaping to his feet and mounting a horse—and the visit to the chiropractor’s office afterward—only to blink when the trees are replaced with Shawn Spencer’s face, and then the rest of his body. He’s bright-eyed and probably bushy-tailed and staring hard down at Carlton from a distance of only about six inches.

There are spots of color at his cheekbones, but even without them, Spencer’s skin so flushed and warm that Carlton can feel it. It’s a hell of a lot warmer than the sunshine, he decides faintly, damp under his collar, flushing to match, and quickly sweeps his gaze up to look directly into Spencer’s face.

He can see flecks in Spencer’s eyes. Because Spencer is very, very close to him, and getting closer every second that he sits here on his ass.

Carlton sucks in a breath, because if there’s anything he can remember right now that _isn’t_ the last time Spencer had looked at him like this from so close, is that Spencer is not supposed to be this close. Spencer this close equals trouble. He’s been telling himself that for weeks now and he absolutely means it.

Carlton had fought, he had snarled and yelled and shoved to keep as much distance between himself and Shawn Spencer during the last few weeks, no matter how many times he’d turned around and found Spencer grinning behind him. Because Spencer was crazy, and dangerous, and reckless, and a liar, and because there was this little patch of skin just above his collarbone that not one shirt in Spencer’s multi-hued t-shirt collection ever really covered up and Carlton kept imagining putting his mouth there and Spencer’s smiles always said that he knew that.

“What, Spencer?” He recovers enough to snap, but his heart is beating too quickly—still pumped full of adrenaline from his fall. He looks away as he sits up, not particularly surprised when Spencer falls back onto his knees next to him and leans his head to one side. His eyes reflect the blue of his open coat and trousers as they widen with false innocence, and Carlton tenses in expectation of the joke.

“For a second there, Lass, I thought I was going to have to get your band over there to play “Amazing Grace” at your funeral.”

His back hurts, Carlton reminds himself, and clenching his teeth even though the echoing pain is already starting to lessen. His back hurts and he’s in the middle of something here and he really doesn’t have the patience to deal with Spencerisms right now, no matter how serious Spencer had actually managed to sound. Carlton frowns even harder in Spencer’s direction and notices that Spencer is wearing the same outfit he’d worn during the last Reenactment he’d crashed—only he’d forgone the Burnsides…the sideburns this time.

They’d probably been the most accurate things about his last uniform, which would probably be the reason Spencer had ditched them. He was unshaven again, as usual, but his white shirt did seem to have been ironed. Probably Guster’s doing. At least he isn’t holding a weapon.

Actually, he’s holding what looks like a messenger bag. A completely anachronistic messenger bag with Velcro straps across the front flap and the REI logo down the side.

Carlton studies the bag for a second longer than necessary, because knowing Spencer any number of ridiculous things could be inside. And because it’s easier than looking into Shawn Spencer’s face when he knows what he’ll see there.

The last time they’d been in a field together they had also been surrounded by chaos; in fact the bruises around his eye had only just finally faded completely. _This_ chaos at least wasn’t Spencer’s fault—that he knows of.

“I…” he starts, because Spencer is still staring at him, giving him the same smirking, patient look he’s been aiming his way for weeks now. Ever since saving the girl in the Dollhouse Kidnappings.

Freak. Though the guy kidnapping the girls had been pretty weird too.

There’s an ache around his chest. Like maybe somebody had filled their beanbag with rocks instead of beans or rice. He has a pop a few buttons on his coat to rub at the spot and Spencer’s eyes fall to his hand. His grin returns so suddenly that Carlton smiles back before he can catch himself.

“You always let a little beanbag unhorse you, Lassi?” Luckily, that smart ass remark wipes the dumb look off his face.

“Shut up, Spencer.” He’s grunting and he doesn’t care. “What are you doing here?” They’d ended their last case successfully—without Spencer and Guster, who had been off solving something for a private client though no doubt still using Department resources thanks to O’Hara—and with his current workload clear, Carlton had been looking forward to these two days. Two days in the company of his fellow warriors, two days out in the open with every kind of distraction but the one in front of him.

“Very important business.” Spencer is not being coy. Spencer is being mysterious. So whatever he’s got to reveal is big and Spencer won’t be able to keep it to himself. The man loves to show how clever he is, to show off, especially in front of Carlton. So all he has to do wait and Spencer will spill everything. Carlton opens his mouth anyway.

“And what gives you the right to wear that?” Waving a hand at the simple, unbuttoned uniform, which—realistic though it might be, is still annoyingly like Spencer to disregard regulations, makes Spencer’s gaze drop. Then he shrugs.

“Mr. Mahoney never asked for it back.” As Mahoney was currently in prison, that had undoubtedly slipped his mind. Carlton feels himself arching an eyebrow, playing along, and straightens his face a second too late. He’s not even sure why he bothers anymore; Spencer always seems to know anyway, except that it just seems… _incredibly aggravating_ …to let Spencer get his way so much. It doesn’t matter that everyone plays with Spencer after a while, that there’s nothing special or personal in his games. In fact that makes it worse, makes Carlton more determined to fight the urge this time, to play, to _win_ , even if the prize on the table is so tempting.

“Besides,” Spencer goes on, jolting Carlton back from the memory of Spencer on his knees, all but offering to suck his cock again. “You’re not the only one who likes to play dress-up, Lass.”

Spencer’s eyelids drop, his look getting considering anything _but_ coy and that memory comes right back, mingled with the sweat-slick feel of Spencer’s skin, the uncontrolled, insane _squeak_ in his voice when Carlton had first pushed their bodies together. He had insisted on talking, on continuing to talk, that pleading, convincing tone he always used filthy and sinful once his lips had been swollen and come-wet. _Carlton_. Spencer had no problem begging when manipulation had failed, like he’d known that hearing him beg only made Carlton hard again, had made him want to yank Spencer closer and tell him to shut up, that he didn’t need to say anything.

It’s when Spencer speaks that trouble starts. The reminder does absolutely nothing for the way his dick is pounding. Neither does recalling that Spencer had been hovering at the edge of his vision for weeks with just the same look on his face every time everyone else had been looking in another direction.

The fact that Carlton had of course already been looking back at Spencer and waiting for the look was hardly a surprise anymore.

He still has to take a deep breath to speak. “Knock it off, Spencer.”

“I thought we were back to ‘Shawn’.” Shawn—Spencer sticks his lower lip for half a second. When Carlton’s eyes fall to it, he changes his mind and uses his tongue to wet it instead. Carlton exhales loudly before he swings his stare—his glare—back up to Spencer’s blue-for-today eyes. “At least, we were last week when I got you in that storage closet…”

 _Spencer’s hands, all over him, hot under his shirt in less than a second, around his belt a moment later._

There’s a moment of dizziness as most of Carlton’s blood heads below the Mason-Dixon, and the trouble breathing he had before is nothing to his sudden wheezing.

Pushing Spencer away and storming out of the closet had taken less resolve than fighting the urge to turn around and go right back in. But he wasn’t going to have sex with Spencer—again—and not in public, no matter what Spencer seemed to think.

“Knock it off, Spencer,” Carlton says again. His teeth are clenched so hard it’s nearly painful. Spencer lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Knock what off, Lassi?” The quiet question makes Carlton open eyes he hadn’t realized were closed. Spencer is still resting on his knees, watching him with a small frown of confusion on his face. The sight of a lost Shawn Spencer makes Carlton smile out of reflex, even if it’s…possibly…somewhat _endearing_ and that seeing it makes him want to shut up and pretend the two of them aren’t currently engaged in…whatever it is they’re engaged in.

Possibly a battle of wills. If only he knew what it was over.

The point is, he’s confused the brilliant psychic. He is winning at the moment, even if he doesn’t know why.

“This!” He waves a hand between them, regretting it the second he does when the action draws Spencer’s gaze down to the bulge in Carlton’s pants that his uniform isn’t doing much to hide.

“The nice chubs you got going for me?” The grin is like nails pressing into his skin. Carlton’s face gets hot but he puts his hands on the ground and pushes himself to his feet. Spencer goes all wide-eyed and follows him, stepping closer for the half a second that Carlton takes to rub at his lumbar region.

“No, the chubs I’ve always go…. This!” Carlton barks out as his back gives a final twinge and he can stand up straight. He tugs at his coat until he at least looks decent and not out of his mind with Spencer-fueled lust. “Whatever it is you think you are doing in that lunatic, supposedly psychic brain of yours!” He hadn’t known Spencer’s eyes could even get this round, that Spencer could get so still. Carlton steps in to press his advantage without hesitating. Spencer doesn’t step back though one hand comes up between them; Carlton can feel its heat through his tunic coat and undershirt. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Spencer, but I am not…” ‘Not interested’ is too much of a lie, even if Spencer hadn’t just seen his arousal. “…I’m not...” ‘One of your conquests’ is just too Victorian. “…I’m the Head Detective,” he finishes, finally, and glares when a smile spreads slowly across Spencer’s face.

“That’s not all.” Spencer acts like his words make sense, then clicks his heels together and straightens up.

“General!” The breathless question has Carlton turning but Peterson comes to a stop next to him and Carlton takes a moment to look over the field and realizes that the play-fighting has mostly come to a halt.

“What?” he snaps immediately and Peterson comes to an awkward halt in front of him.

“You all right? I can’t imagine how that happened.” Peterson has got Carlton’s hat in his hands, though how that ended up on the other side of the bridge—yards away from anywhere Carlton had been—is not something Carlton really wants to know right now. He snatches it back and gives the man a suspicious glare for a moment before he settles it back on his head and lifts his chin.

“I’m fine.” His back twinges again just to make him a liar, but Carlton grimaces and ignores it. “Find out what went wrong…and find Horatio.”

“CSI: Miami, Lassi? Really?” A pair of sunglasses appear out of nowhere on Spencer’s face and he takes a moment to dramatically remove them before he stows them away again. Peterson’s eyes flick curiously to him.

“It’s Horatio Hornblower…from the novels, Spencer, not that you read.” It’s easy to ignore the answering gasp and following babble. He’s had plenty of experience.

“That hurts, Lass. That really hurts. Just last week I read a Parade magazine cover to cover.”

Peterson however turns to give Spencer a close examination, stopping to stare disapprovingly at the messenger bag. “Don’t believe I know you, Soldier.”

“Corporal Jamie Lee Curtis, late of the 69th Californian Messenger Corps.” Spencer manages some sort of salute and introduces himself before Carlton can say a thing or think of how to save Sergeant Peterson from the friendly smile and the usual confusing stream of babble designed to win him over. In less than a minute, the sergeant is nodding his head and agreeing with everything out of Spencer’s mouth no matter how idiotic it obviously is. “I just got back from delivering a message to Her Majesty. Her Majesty is quite pleased with the way things are turning out here, by the way, freedom, democracy, the cotton gin, the whole shebang. Even offered me tea, but I prefer a nice mellow Darjeeling to a black Assam.”

“Spencer.”

“ _Anyway_.” He’d take a moment to admire Spencer’s ability to bullshit if he weren’t listening to the most ignorant and insane lies to ever come out of Spencer’s mouth. Sometimes he wasn’t one hundred percent sure Spencer had really graduated from high school, despite the fact that he had looked up Spencer’s records himself once during a long, sleepless night. Bill and Ted had gotten more out of history class. “I’d just gotten back to Washington when an urgent telegram arrived ordering me to come out here and have a talk with General…uh…” Spencer waves a hand and shoots him an expectant look. So does Peterson. Carlton crosses his arms and lets Spencer dangle for a moment before arching one eyebrow.

“Cartwright.”

“General Cartwright here…” Of course Spencer doesn’t miss a beat. “...And I have to relay this message to him in _absolute privacy_.” Carlton is not afraid of Spencer. Not even close. But something shivers down his back at Spencer’s emphasis on those two words and he grits his teeth.

“The General’s tent is right over there.” Peterson helpfully points out Carlton’s HQ, and then flinches when he turns back and finds Carlton scowling at him.

“Sergeant, why don’t you make yourself useful and go tell the men it’s time for a break?” The other two both take a step back at his tone, but Peterson manages a salute before he hurries away. Carlton takes a moment to watch him and make sure the mock-battle actually stops before he turns back.

Spencer has relaxed again. Of course he has. He’s shaking his head at the men, all outfitted for today’s dress rehearsal, as they suddenly drop character and start heading to their cars to go get coffee or food. It is about noon, now that Carlton is paying attention. Not that his carelessness is the reason he got knocked from his horse in the first place, but if it had been, he could always put the blame on Spencer for following him around and tormenting him like this, ensuring that he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in over two weeks, leaving him so frustrated and so—rightfully—irritated that O’Hara had started snapping back at him.

Though explaining that to his men might be more than a little awkward.

Carlton grimaces and puts one hand to his back, just in case, as he walks over to his tent.

It’s the usual pitched tent, slightly bigger than what the men would be sleeping in if this were an actual campsite the night before a battle. But then a General was supposed to do his planning in his tent as well. It was big enough to fit a long table, a few chairs, and a cot. The table and cot were historically accurate-looking, made by a carpenter on the Confederate side, but the chairs were fold-out.

There’s a few men remaining, he can still hear the regimental band in fact, but no one nearby as he slips into his tent and lets the flap fall closed behind him; Spencer will let himself in, there’s no need to be courteous.

The bag with Carlton’s regular clothes is in one corner, and for authenticity’s sake, there’s a reprint of a map of Tennessee spread out on the table. On the cot there’s a small mirror Carlton had used to put on his facial hair. There isn’t even the slightest thing that would make a good distraction. Not that he’s looking for one. Or that he needs one. He’s not afraid of being alone with Spencer.

As he predicted, Spencer lets himself in uninvited. Maybe Carlton’s a psychic too.

Spencer pauses in the doorway, his eyes darting around as though he’s memorizing the space, which is ridiculous. Then he blinks and focuses back on Carlton with his eyebrows up.

“There was no point in decorating.” Carlton crosses his arms and answers as though Spencer _has_ just memorized the inside of his tent.

“Not even a picture of the girl you left behind?” Spencer wonders as the band outside starts playing that exact song. Carlton knows he’s frowning, not sure whether Spencer _does_ actually know his history or whether that was just a coincidence.

Spencer steps further into the tent without waiting for an answer. It gets darker as the door falls closed behind him, just strips of sunlight sneaking in under the edges and what sun can get through the thick canvas. It’s old canvas, but Carlton enjoys the musty smell. It adds a touch of reality, lets him imagine sheltering in here in the heavy rains, eating beans and hardtack and whatever fruit or vegetables the land provided.

Spencer wrinkles his nose, then shrugs. “You and Gus really ought to get together and go to the geek conventions. Honestly, you really love all this dress-up, don’t you?”

“It’s _not_ dress-up, Spencer.” Just like that, his jaw is clenched again. Carlton takes his hat and sets it carefully down on the cot, smoothing down the large, white feather that he had personally picked out. “It’s remembering acts of heroism and bravery and tragic loss made by our forefathers.” When he lifts his head Spencer hasn’t moved forward at all, but his mouth is curved up. It’s not precisely Spencer’s normal pitying, amused grin, but Carlton still glares at him.

“Spencer, why in the name of Ulysses S. Grant are you here?” He doesn’t care about the tactical mistake of a direct question, he just wants Spencer gone. If he’d thought it would actually work, he would have just told Spencer to go. Spencer’s smile turns into a full grin that does _not_ light up his face no matter how much brighter the tent suddenly seems. Carlton drops his hands to his sides and curls his fingers into his palms.

“Lunch!” Spencer’s answer is as bright as his eyes and Carlton feels his jaw go slack—just a little—when Spencer takes off the messenger bag and opens it. He starts laying items on the table without looking up.

There are two foot-long sandwiches wrapped in paper, a bag of chips, and two pouches of Capri-Sun, labeled piña mango. There’s also a box of cranberry juice that Spencer has to come around to the table to hand to him. Carlton hadn’t even realized he had put the table between them, but he takes the juice without comment and Spencer darts back around to his side and plays with the wrapping on the sandwiches for a moment.

“Cranberry juice seems more your thing, but I wasn’t sure about the sandwiches…”

“Tell me they’re not eggplant.” He can’t help it. Spencer looks up for the first time in a few minutes and there’s an arrested expression on his face, like someone having a sudden realization. Then he firms his lips and shrugs and looks back down.

“One meatball. One Italian. You just give off this ‘meat-eater’ vibe, Lass.” Spencer glances up again to give him an obvious wink and then a small laugh. His leer is so weak that Carlton doesn’t even blush. He just stares for another few minutes, then absently pokes his straw through the top of his juice box and takes a sip.

“What is all this, Spencer?” He asks after he swallows and decides that the juice is not poisoned or drugged.

“Well nothing else was working.” Spencer shrugs again and peels back the wrapping on meatball sub, which is still so hot from the REI bag that some steam rises up. “You hungry or not? If you’re not hungry, I suppose I could give your sandwich to the sergeant out there…or Gus…” His voice trails off into something so quiet it shouldn’t be Spencer in front of him. And yet it is, and he’s still playing with the damn sandwich paper. The fact that it’s an act, that Carlton _knows_ it’s an act to let Spencer have his way doesn’t stop him from opening his damn mouth.

“Italian.” Carlton decides abruptly and Spencer switches back into his usual self that easily. He slides the sandwich down the table but Carlton keeps his eyes on him anyway as he pulls up a chair and sits.

Spencer appears occupied down at his end, playing with one of his two Capri-Sun. Carlton looks away finally to poke around in his sandwich for traces of mint, or hot peppers, or a used band-aid, or anything else repulsive that either Spencer or a careless sandwich-maker might have stuck in there. It looks clean and smells delicious, seasoned meats and fresh, crisp vegetables. If there’s anything Spencer seems good at, it’s picking out food.

“Better than hardtack, right?” Spencer volunteers more startling knowledge—or mind-reading—but is still fiddling with his “juice” when Carlton glances up.

“I don’t actually eat hardtack when I’m out here, Spencer.” At least, not as a meal, more as a snack. He’s not that much a loser. Besides, it doesn’t taste that bad.

“Oh I don’t think you’re a loser, Lassifras.” Spencer has finally moved on to his sandwich, still without looking up. “Besides, loser apparently works for me.” His voice is low, puzzled. Carlton frowns at the new nickname more than the additional whispered comment, but doesn’t say anything about Spencer’s lucky guess about what he was thinking. He has another problem anyway.

His sandwich is an actual foot long, all on a huge, crusty roll of sourdough. There’s no way he can eat it without it ending up in his beard and mustache.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” is all he hears before his body registers the weight and heat of Spencer sitting in his lap. His legs are still on the floor, but Spencer—Spencer’s ass—is definitely in his lap, and one of his arms is moving up to curl around Carlton’s neck while Carlton is still gaping.

Carlton breathes out, very aware that they are so close that his breath stirs the strands of Spencer’s ridiculous hair that aren’t gelled in place. He shifts, and Spencer wriggles to face him. There’s a flush on Spencer’s face, and a serious expression and it’s only after Spencer pushes a piece of salami between his lips that Carlton realizes his mouth is still open.

He might be panting. It’s hard to say. Spencer is staring at him, watching carefully as he automatically chews, then swallows. It’s good, not that it matters now, not when he’s staring at Spencer’s mouth, which is so close, not when Spencer is licking that mouth like he enjoys the way Carlton is looking, like he didn’t come here today to offer sandwiches for lunch.

His body reacts instantly to the offer and Carlton jerks backward and onto his feet in one move. Like the cat that he had pretended to channel, Spencer manages to stay on his feet, and give him a hurt look at the same time. He even gives a shake and a slinky, short stretch, before he settles on the edge of the table, one leg still on the floor. His ass is right next to the sandwich Carlton _had_ been going to eat.

His lip is still stuck out in a stubborn, pouty look that he must have picked up from Guster, but his eyes roam immediately downward and Carlton gives his uniform coat another good tug. Spencer sighs loudly and directs his eyes back up.

He’s smiling, but he’s not talking. Carlton crosses his arms when he meets his stare. Then he uncrosses them to fiddle with his sword belt, because Spencer still isn’t saying anything.

He hadn’t been this quiet the last time Carlton had pushed him off his lap. If anything, it’s almost like Spencer is waiting. For what, Carlton hasn’t got a clue. It’s like facing down an angry Victoria when she kept insisting she wasn’t mad when in fact she’d been incredibly ticked off because Carlton had been late coming home because of a case, or because he hadn’t noticed her new hair. He’d made a horrible husband, she’d had no problem communicating that part, but the why she’d never explained.

His cases were always life and death. And so what if she’d never noticed his hair? He’d had his mustache shaved for a week before she’d said anything. He hadn’t stared at her with big, bright blue-ish eyes and faked a smile.

Oh crap.

“I didn’t…hurt you…did I?” Carlton waves at the table, not that he had shoved Spencer that hard this time. Not that Spencer didn’t seem to generally enjoy the shoving judging from how often he volunteered for it. And not that he cared. “I mean…”

“Usually, Lass, you disappear about this time.” Spencer’s grin is wide. He flutters one hand in a scurrying motion. “You know, run away like Gus after a spider crawls across his leg?”

“I do not…” He tries to deny it but there’s no shutting up Spencer now. He angles his head to the side and shoots Carlton the kind of sly look that had made everyone at the station think he was so much fun to be around. The insinuating look that had made Carlton the butt of too many jokes when Spencer had first gone into business as a fake detective.

“I’d almost think you were afraid of little old me, or avoiding me.” Carlton scowls instantly at the implication and Spencer’s head comes back up, bobbing a little to the music coming from outside. “But now I know that it’s all your way of keeping me interested. I had no idea you were such a game player, Lassi.”

“I…what?”

“You could have just asked me out. Really, Lass, it was so obvious. Even then.” As though the music is all that’s on his mind, Spencer is moving his head to the beat of what sounds like the new single by the last pair to win on American Duos. Carlton opens his mouth again, gets out one word that rhymes with “Encer”, and closes it.

He’s usually baffled by Spencer’s insane lines of reasoning and his countless pop culture references. He’s generally as confused as any of the criminals they chase together to see a grown man go from flopping on the floor like a fish to being a sharp-minded investigator with the right answer up his sleeve the whole time. And it’s not at all unusual to find himself stumped by one of the many bizarre non-sequiturs that come out of Spencer’s mouth.

That being the case, he knows he is still standing in front of Spencer with his mouth opening and closing and looking like a complete idiot. He shuts his mouth at least, for all of thirty seconds, while his brain repeats Spencer’s remark and focuses on the two words “even then”.

He’s pretty sure he has no idea what Spencer is talking about. As far as he knows, Spencer went from regarding him as the annoying Head Detective he had to mock, deceive, and lie to, to someone he could hide behind in a crisis, to someone he had jumped in a strip club bathroom.

He certainly hadn’t been putting out any signals. Well he had, but not to Carlton; to witness, and suspects, and O’Hara, and the Chief, and McNab, and possibly even Guster, but not to Carlton. Never to Carlton.

Though, to be fair, the last date Carlton had gone on and thought was going okay had ended in less than ten minutes with his date sneaking out through the emergency exit. Considering that that had also been his first actual date in…months…he would hardly call himself a good judge of signals.

But no matter how he looked at it, and he had many times in many ways, restless night after restless night, all Spencer had done to him was drive him crazy with anger. Showing off all the time, acting like an idiot. Sitting on his lap. Groping his leg. Yanking his tie. Then just…flaunting himself…bragging with his eyes about what he’d done in that bathroom at Tom Blair’s. With Hornstock. With another man. As though Spencer had _wanted_ him to know.

And that’s all he had been able to think about, Spencer’s mouth, Spencer’s eyes, his hands pushing forward to touch him, letting him know what Spencer had done, asking him, asking if he could do it again, with him.

Hot and drunk and clumsy, like Spencer never was. Asking him.

Oh.

Carlton might just be having a heart attack.

Crap.


	2. Chapter 2

His chest is tight, his throat locked. For a moment, all that races through his mind is that that bathroom had been filthy. In a place like that, he thinks, and tries to shake the thought away, as though it had never occurred to Spencer to try to take it anywhere else.

“Or not…” Spencer goes on after what Carlton realizes must have been a minute or two of silence. Spencer scratches behind his ear and moves his gaze up to the top of the tent when Carlton finally looks back at him, blinking. “Henry’s on your side of this, as much as he can bring himself to think and talk about it. Which isn’t much. I wouldn’t count on any invitations to go fishing for a while.”

“Henry?” The wince is automatic, but surprisingly, it makes Spencer look at him again. He’s even smiling a little as he swings his leg back and forth. “Wait a minute…” It’s not like he and Spencer are…

They’ve already messed around. It’s been a while since Carlton’s few college experimentations, but there is no denying that they have definitely fooled around. Gone further than fooling around, if he’s being honest. Wanted to do more than fool around. Dreamed about doing more than fooling around.

His face is burning. He is not imagining Spencer telling his father about that. That’s a nightmare for later. He’ll just have to start wearing a vest under his suits for the next few weeks, on the off chance Henry Spencer wants to kill him. And while that’s almost a welcome distraction right now, it’s not like Carlton is going to fire back at such a well-respected officer, though it could be fun, he supposes, a game of life or death and…

Carlton shuts his eyes for a moment and nearly cries. He’s going as insane as Spencer.

A few moments ago he had been peacefully recreating a scene from one of the bloodiest battles in history, minding his own business and reasonably content with all the imaginary carnage, even if he wasn’t sleeping steadily anymore and whenever he closed his eyes he saw a hundred little Spencers laughing at him for thinking his attention meant anything, and now he’s got the real Spencer in front of him, laughing at him not getting that his attention _did_ mean something, and Henry Spencer probably out to kill or at least maim him.

“Hold on a minute, Spencer.” He puts up a hand and he knows he will never, ever understand Shawn Spencer because his fierce words make Spencer bounce in place.

“Don’t you think it’s time you called me Shawn again?”

“No,” Carlton answers shortly, no matter how hopefully Spencer’s voice had risen, or the way his eyes kept darting over to him in a look that would have uncertain from anyone else. People who suck cock in public bathrooms aren’t allowed to be shy. That’s a rule Carlton can get behind…a rule he can understand.

“I don’t know what you think this is, Sh—Spencer, but…” As soon as he knows what he’s saying, he’ll finish that sentence.

It’s hot in his tent. His skin feels like it’s on fire. Carlton pulls at his collar and pops free another few buttons, only shuddering a little when that gets Spencer’s attention. He’s starting to wonder if this is what the criminals Spencer catches feel like as he circles around their guilt. He ought to know what’s going on, except that all he can seem to focus on is that he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Henry Spencer’s permission to date his son. He didn’t do that, well he did, he had, with Victoria and her father, but this was entirely different. “We’re not dating, Spencer.”

“Not yet, you won’t ask me,” Spencer snaps back instantly, as though he’s been waiting for Carlton to work out the obvious. “And frankly, Lass, I’m getting tired of waiting. Here I am, approaching spinsterhood…”

“Spinsterhoo…?”

“…All because you won’t work up the courage to ask me to go see the animated adventures of a martial-arts loving panda with you.” Spencer hops off the table and Carlton feels as though he can move again. He reaches around Spencer and grabs another piece of salami off his sandwich. He barely chews it before swallowing. Then he jabs his finger in Spencer’s direction. They aren’t quite close enough to touch, but they could be.

“You could ask me,” Carlton points out roughly and can’t even be surprised. “You don’t seem to have any problems inviting O’Hara to go anywhere.” Or Hornstock. But Carlton shuts his mouth hard before that name can slip out.

“Jules?” Spencer actually looks surprised. Then embarrassed. His face flushes a little to a nice, guilty pink and he spends a moment scratching behind his ear. “That’s a different kind of situation, Lassi,” he answers at last and widens his eyes when Carlton snorts and crosses his arms. “No, see, I was going to marry her…no…That isn’t really what a person ought to say out loud, isn’t it? Hmm.”

Spencer is frowning enough that Carlton spares a minute to wonder if Spencer other…dates…targets…suckers…whatever…were won over by this kind of talk, or if Spencer was just this irritating with him. He frowns right back at him and Spencer swallows and sucks in a breath.

Embarrassment evidently gone, Spencer launches into a speech about childhood and dreams and Guster’s cheerleader fantasy that doesn’t make much sense, not that Carlton had expected it to. He had thought Spencer had shown the slightest bit of maturity back in that field by actually telling the truth, but he had obviously been mistaken.

“Was going to. _Was_. Total past tense,” Spencer finally winds up, beaming again, hopefully, shyly, whatever. Carlton looks down.

“It’s none of my business, Spencer.” His sword belt has gotten twisted, probably during the fall. Spencer’s eyes are on him while he fixes it and when he raises his head, Spencer has moved in closer. Carlton’s legs hit the chair as he considers backing up.

“I swear.” Spencer actually crosses his heart as he says the words, then frowns when Carlton rolls his eyes. “Jules is like…” Spencer takes a moment to think…of a good lie probably. Then his face brightens. “The girl next door. The dream girl.”

Carlton actually feels his stomach clench, acid burning in the back of his throat.

“Not. Helping.” All the acid churning through him is nothing to the cold thrill of fear when he realizes he said that out loud. Spencer of course, immediately perks right up.

“But you, Lass, you’re like…” Carlton lowers his brows and works his jaw, his eyes on Spencer while Spencer searches for the right words. That he appears to be thinking deeply on the issue just proves he isn’t, that he has already thought about it in the recesses of his insane but undeniably gifted mind.

“…The cranky college kid up the street who is too busy and mature to have time for our crazy high school antics, but who I still catch a glimpse of sometimes through his bedroom window as he’s getting dressed and who I’m convinced is leaving his bedroom blinds open on purpose to screw with my teenage hormones.”

Carlton fakes a smile, then lifts his head when he realizes a second after Spencer is done talking that he didn’t have to. He blinks since his eyes feel dry, and swallows. His throat feels dry too. “What was that, Spencer? Ah…” Spencer has moved so that their boots are bumping, and the thought brings even more heat to Carlton’s face. Fortunately, Spencer is staring at the sandwich on the table.

“Believe me, if I’d thought I would have had a chance…”

“You would have screwed that up too?” The harsh words get stuck in Carlton’s throat when Spencer lifts his head and gives him his usual I’m-a-psychic-and-I-know-what-you’re-thinking look and then makes a “tsk tsk” sound. He still doesn’t know if Spencer being playful is Spencer being real, so he frowns and coughs before he speaks.

“What’s your point, Spencer?” Cutting through the bull is the best response. Spencer scowls for a moment and steps back into the table.

“You know, Lass, this is a very serious conversation for people who haven’t even had a first date yet.” He really shouldn’t be surprised that Spencer whines or that after his statement he reaches back to pick up a piece of salami. He looks thoughtful as he chews it, and doesn’t seem to notice that he got a bit of mustard on his cheek. Carlton glares at it—at him.

“Seriously, Spencer, what is with your dating obsession?” It’s just more of Spencer’s insanity, acting as though they haven’t known each other, or at least worked together, for over a year now. As though Spencer hadn’t hesitated to ask out everyone who wasn’t Carlton within a ten block radius. As though he’d asked anything before appearing in that bathroom.

Except he had, Carlton realizes again, and shivers.

Spencer stops chewing and licks most of the mustard from his cheek before gesturing at his uniform.

“An old-fashioned guy like you, Carlton? I thought you’d get it.” Spencer holds out a hand and uses his other one to count off on his fingers. “Without a first date we don’t get a first kiss. And it’s shortly after our first kiss that we finally get really freaky.” He finishes with a small flourish toward his head, as if to say to that this is all inevitable and in some psychic vision. Only after that Spencer is motionless, or appears that way, breathing shallowly.

Freaky? Carlton mentally repeats the word as he sucks in some air. He’s having some trouble difficulty too all of the sudden. He can hear himself breathing, the noise mingling with the slight rasp of Spencer’s breath, his heart in his ears, and the sounds of soul funk being played with snare drums, pipes, and trumpets.

“Is that…Flashlight?” Spencer blinks once or twice and then winces at the sound of a trumpet solo. “Civil War soldiers were big on George Clinton?”

“They also do weddings and bar mitzvahs,” Carlton explains over the distant sound of the men cheering what was clearly some kind of request.

“Of course they do.”

“Freaky?” Carlton wonders out loud. Spencer looks up, the bad music apparently forgotten. His slow grin is like the strip club all over again, but without the haze of scotch.

“Oh yeah,” Spencer promises, nodding for emphasis then closing his eyes. He puts up his hands and then lets them fall until they are resting on Carlton’s chest. It’s the vision scene he’s enacted a hundred times before and just like before his hands instantly wander. Carlton inhales sharply.

“We’ve just finished dinner—date number two—and you’re dropping me off at the office, because you’re _such_ a gentlemen, Lassi, and you’re helping with the door, because I’ve got my arms full of the pineapple you brought me instead of flowers and some doggie bags because neither of us had much of an appetite…for food…” With his eyes closed, Spencer still arches his eyebrows and tries a leer. Carlton tries to snort, for effect, but his ears are straining for the next bit and he’s frozen, letting Spencer roll right on, spouting nonsense, groping him, just like always.

“Then while I’m leaning against the open door fiddling with my keys, you lean in, and before you know it you’ve got me pinned against the wall…and then the floor…and we don’t really make it all the way inside, but my neighbors are pretty discreet, so you don’t have to worry about my reputation.”

It’s not just his face. His whole body is on fire, and Spencer must feel it through his clothes, because he opens his eyes. Carlton stares back at him, tries to swallow but his throat is too dry.

“Are you saying…?” He can’t say that out loud, not while he’s wearing the uniform.

Spencer doesn’t seem to have the same problem. He shrugs again as though it doesn’t really matter.

“I didn’t really expect you to fuck me on the floor, Lassi, but I’m hardly complaining. The rug burns are _so_ worth it.”

He feels like he has done the open mouth, shut mouth routine about six times already during this insane conversation. Spencer looks absolutely certain. It has to be a bluff.   
Spencer’s not psychic. That’s the truth because psychics don’t exist.

True, Spencer is right about a lot of things. But Carlton doesn’t do impetuous things like take fake psychics on a date or to f… to make love on floors.

Yes, there had been sex in a strip club bathroom, but that had only been once…and…Spencer had somehow tricked him. Or at least, not really given him much a choice, just unzipped him and gone to town with that sweet, lying mouth of his. He had only pulled Spencer to his feet and jacked him off because he’d wanted to shut him up. Because he couldn’t just leave Spencer like that. Because Spencer’s skin was hot and his hands hadn’t let go once while Carlton had held him.

Clearing his throat isn’t any good with his mouth this dry.

If he was going to think about…about something like that happening…right here and now instead of at home in the shower, or on the couch during the Late Show, then it would all take place after dinner, inside, with the door closed and the windows closed. And there would be a bed, a big, wide bed with clean white sheets so he could grab Spencer’s wrists and work his legs apart without having to worry about a sore back in the morning. He’d turn Spencer into that whimpering, obedient mess he’d been the first time, fuck him until he couldn’t manage any psychic babble or pop culture references or anything else but his name.

His mouth is wet again. His body hot, his heart pounding, his dick hard.

Carlton licks his lips and leans in. Spencer’s eyes go wide again, though he isn’t trying to play innocent. His fingers curl at Carlton’s sides and Carlton jabs a finger into his chest and then pokes him again until his ass hits the table.

“I don’t play games.” What he’d meant to say outside suddenly comes back to him. Shawn blinks, obviously confused, and Carlton smiles at him, a good, slow smile that makes Spencer frown. He waits for three beats of his rapidly-approaching-an-arrhythmia heart and then leans in more. Spencer’s breath catches. “And if and when I ever fuck you, Spencer, it will be on my terms, not yours.”

At least, that’s what Carlton means to say. What he actually hears leave his mouth is, “ _When_ I fuck you, Spencer, it will be on my terms, not yours.”

His eye might be round with surprise, but Carlton still isn’t moving away. Spencer’s eyes slide down to his uniform and then back up, something suspiciously like a smirk curving his mouth.

Carlton’s hands are clutching something soft. He has a feeling that if he looks down he’ll see his hands wrinkling Spencer’s shirt. But Spencer wets his lips and the temptation is obvious. Carlton grunts and moves forward. If Spencer wants to provoke him then he’ll show him a first kiss.

He tightens his fingers in Spencer’s shirt and yanks him close.

“Wait wait wait!” Spencer whispers, his hands going up and Carlton freezes, a new sick feeling replacing the heat in his chest. This was another game. Of course it was. He drops his head and moves but Spencer puts his hands at his shoulders to hold him still.

“Lassi,” he says, almost seriously. Carlton scowls as he turns, already stepping away. Spencer just rolls his eyes. “I refuse to have our first kiss involve the face wig,” he announces, still close to serious. Carlton gets a moment to wonder once again what in the hell Spencer is talking about and then there’s just the lightening-quick sensation of pain as Spencer tears off his fake beard.

“Ow! What the hell, Spencer?” For a second he can’t see for the tears in his eyes, and then he doesn’t need to. Shawn Spencer’s mouth is under his, his stubble scratching his cheeks before Carlton turns into the kiss. Spencer makes the same whimpers as before when Carlton touches him, the same but they sound new, muffled against his mouth, as needy as Spencer’s grasping fingers pulling his head down. The sounds echo between them, and Carlton swears, tries to, and ends up just grabbing Spencer and crushing him to the table.

Spencer only parts his lips and lets him, leaning back, his hands clutching at the decorations on Carlton’s shoulders to stay up.

Spencer’s mouth is…Spencer’s mouth. Just like he imagined. Worse than he imagined. Quick and restless, but gentle, soft. He can’t breathe but he can’t stop. Carlton moves his hands, spreads them over Shawn’s stomach, brings them down to his hips.

Shawn’s legs are open and Carlton steps between them without hesitating, not really sure when Spencer had ended up sitting on the table again, not really caring either. He gets Shawn’s suspenders out of the way in a second flat and Spencer makes a surprised noise in his throat, but he moves his arms one at a time, bringing his hands back to Carlton the moment he can.

Carlton had slicked his hair down that morning to wear his hat. Spencer just drags his fingers back and forth through it until it’s a mess. He uses his short fingernails to scratch at the back of his neck, and lets out ridiculously hungry sounds with each lick of Carlton’s tongue across his. “Lassi Lassi Lassi,” he repeats in the bare second their mouths are apart and Carlton can hear himself answering, not even certain he’s using words. The noises make his face hot, seem loud around them, but his body tenses and Spencer’s only pounds against him, insistent.

His chest is going to burst and still Carlton is kissing Shawn, panting against his opened mouth, pushing forward again. His hands are locked tight on any part of Spencer he can reach, grasping, pulling cloth away until he finds skin.

Spencer is warm, tan like he’ll never be. His chest has a surprising amount of hair, not that he wants to imagine Spencer waxing.

“Carlton,” Spencer says easily, maybe smiling, but breathing too hard to play it completely cool. Carlton puts his mouth on that patch of skin at Spencer’s neck that has been driving him crazy and sucks hard. He’s leaving bruises but Spencer must like them, he shudders with each one, makes more noise, and Carlton decides heatedly that he’s going to leave Spencer covered in hickeys. He’ll have hickeys on every inch of him and when he looks in the mirror he’ll forget every smart ass thing he’d been going to say and just think about Carlton. That’s what he’d wanted in that closet, in that field, in that damn bathroom, what he wants at home in his bed.

Another noise slips out of him, rough into Spencer’s neck, and Carlton angles his head up, sucking at the scruff under Spencer’s chin. Spencer falls back and Carlton immediately arches over him, rests on top of him, pulling Spencer’s wrinkled white shirt out of the way until he can feel his bare skin with his palms.

Every time Spencer moves, every time he wriggles and tries to take over, Carlton pushes him back down, as rough as Spencer in that closet, enjoying Spencer’s shocked, aroused puffs of air against his face, the amused little wriggles that Spencer does on purpose after that, arching up to meet his hands and mouth. He doesn’t even mind when Spencer gasps out his name in his Little Girl Voice, because when Carlton stops, Spencer’s voice gets low again, and his grip on Carlton’s shoulders grows desperate.

Spencer’s skin is soft. Carlton licks the taste of sun tan lotion from Spencer’s throat, and pulls back. He has to hold himself up, his chest anyway, his crotch is still right between Spencer’s legs. Oh he’d thought about that, what he’d felt for a second in that goddamn storage closet. Spencer’s face hot and pink, his erection twitching and wet, rubbing against his cock as he moves.

“Lass…Lassi.” Spencer doesn’t even sound surprised as he stretches out beneath him. His white shirt is up to his neck, reminding Carlton that he’s also still in uniform. He is still in _uniform_.

“I don’t do things like this, Spencer,” Carlton growls against Spencer’s ear, breathing hard when Spencer shudders all over. His fingers splay out over the warmth of Spencer’s stomach on their own, start circling lower, and he didn’t do things like this ever before. Not even when people had asked him to.

Spencer doesn’t ask, not out loud. He closes his eyes and shifts his hips up and Carlton is groaning and falling back on top of him. He grips his hips tightly, bruising him again, and grunts into his shoulder. His mouth slides open again, teeth, tongue, he doesn’t care, Spencer just pants and says his name.

“That’s it,” Carlton hears himself speaking even while he’s still kissing Spencer’s throat, his collarbone, darting up for a moment to lick the last of the mustard from Spencer’s cheek. His stubble makes it like licking sandpaper, but Carlton does it again before dropping his head back down. Spencer’s shirt is in his way for a moment, and then his lips are around a nipple and Spencer is yelping his name. There’s a pounding beneath him, a heartbeat, like the heavy music of that club.

“Carlton,” Spencer says again, as easy as before, and Carlton yanks at the buttons on the fly of Spencer’s trousers, plastic, but then Spencer’s costume—uniform—had been last minute. They pop free with barely any effort and Carlton sneers at them, at the startled look on Spencer’s face when he glances up.

“Now?” Spencer seems shocked for a moment and then his eyes light up. “Lassi…” But Carlton is shaking his head, enjoying the confusion on Spencer’s face.

“I told you,” he warns once, his cock jerking at the frown on Spencer’s face. Because Spencer doesn’t know everything after all, and that’s the biggest turn on there is.

“But you…” Spencer starts, then stops, and Carlton really, really doesn’t want to hear about Hornstock right now, however Spencer knows.

“Unless you’re calling out my name, Spencer, I don’t want to hear it,” he bites out, then pauses to enjoy the strangled noise Spencer makes, the way the dick pressed against him reacts.

“Carlton Carlton Carlton,” Spencer responds breathlessly a moment later, and then shuts his eyes and screeches it out again, just barely keeping voice down when Carlton slides his pants down. Spencer had not gone with accuracy and worn boxers. Carlton peels those out of his way too. They’re damp, not quite sticky, and Spencer’s dick twitches for him the moment it’s freed. “Sweet Dole Pineapple Chunks. Carlton!”

It’s been a long time since Carlton’s done…anything like this…and he’d never really thought he was any good at it, if anyone could ever be bad at it, which didn’t seem possible. He’d stop, consider something else, but the second his lips touch Spencer’s dick, Spencer shouts his name to the high heavens, loud enough to wake the dead and make the band pause in mid-“Ring of Fire”.

Spencer’s entire body goes still at the first cautious flick of Carlton’s tongue, enough to make Carlton’s face get even hotter and make him think about pulling back. But Spencer’s hands reappear at his shoulders, holding him there, urging his head down.

Carlton dares a glance upward. Spencer’s exposed skin is flushed and sweaty, his chest moving quickly up and down as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s half-off the table for one moment, his mouth softly open and his eyes round, the look alone enough to make Carlton blush hotly, reminding him all over again that this was a bad idea, that he ought to stop, that he’d never be like Spencer at all this. This isn’t easy, and it shouldn’t be easy, to be this intimate with someone else. Spencer ought to learn that.

A rough, shocked noise bursts out of Spencer again when Carlton doesn’t stop, when he moves his tongue again, just like he had licked the mustard from Spencer’s face, and then Spencer collapses back onto the table, his hands flailing for a moment before settling back on Carlton’s shoulders.

“Lassi, if you stop, I will kill you,” Spencer promises him, and Carlton frowns, putting his palms on the table to better hold himself up while he lets his tongue trace the length of Spencer’s cock. It’s not bad, not small, a good mouthful. He stops his exploration to suck once or twice along the thick, pulsing vein, like Spencer had done to him, just grunting when Spencer’s fingers immediately slide up to his hair and tug it in all directions.

The sensation streaks sharply right down his spine, and Carlton grunts, putting his mouth back around Spencer’s cock and tightening his lips.

“Maybe I’ll just get Henry to kill you,” Spencer is still talking in hitching little bursts, quiet and then loud every other word, then just loud when Carlton takes a hand from the table to touch him.

His hip is slick, wet with sweat, the skin shivering under his fingertips. Spencer angles his lower body up and Carlton pushes back without thinking, warning, hard. The heavy, shocked noise escapes Spencer’s throat again, the same feverish whining he’d heard from against the door of that bathroom stall, close to pleading.

“God, Lassi,” Spencer sounds close to begging again, and Carlton likes that, hot again at Spencer begging, comparing him to God. His body is tense, arched painfully over Spencer but he’s knows he’s not going to stop. Not now. Not with Shawn like this.

He flicks his tongue again, pressing at the head of his cock, salty like he remembers and grins when Spencer yanks on his hair. It hurts a little, just like he likes it, and for a second he’s glad Spencer knows things, psychically or otherwise.

Rewarding, ready for more, Carlton ducks his head, taking in as much of Spencer’s cock as he can, swallowing around the tightening in his throat for a moment, then pulling slowly back.

“Or…maybe I’ll just m…marry you.”

Simple enough to do again, and again, just as slow, letting Spencer’s hips twitch and roll and his breath come faster. The slightest motion upward and Carlton can shove him back down, keep it how he wants it.

“Lassi…Carlton…” Spencer whines, twitching up again like he wants Carlton to shove him back, his fingers curling at his scalp, not quite scratching. He’s babbling again a moment later, letting Carlton slowly work his dick. “I didn’t…I don’t want you to think that… Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I’ve found you!”

“General?” The sound of Peterson saying his name and coughing outside the tent entrance takes a second to sink in and then Carlton freezes, glaring when Spencer raises his head to look at him. Spencer’s eyes look wide and dark, no longer blue at all, and there’s a spot at his neck, just above his collarbone, that’s already red with a bruise. Carlton stares at it, distracted, and pulls his mouth away to lick at his lips.

He’d take a moment wondering when Peterson got the discretion to not just walk in, but Shawn is shaking his head and scowling at him. He can almost believe Spencer _would_ kill him if he stopped now, and without thinking Carlton wraps his other hand around the bottom of Spencer’s dick and resumes his blowjob. He makes his grip firm, and spends a moment stroking Spencer while his tongue curls around the tip of his cock.

Spencer falls back with a groan and a grunt and then twists hard on the hair he’s still holding. It’s so good Carlton nearly thrusts against the table, and settles for sucking hard right when Spencer opens his mouth.

“The… _General_ …is…uh…. _busy_!” Spencer’s voice rises to a subdued shriek, then drops to a low mutter. “Come back later, when I’m not dying.”

“What?” Peterson evidently isn’t discreet enough, and Carlton would be blushing if he could make himself care about anything else but the taste of Spencer’s cock and the way Spencer is already shaking, the way he’s going to make Spencer lose it right here, right now, with someone else listening. He can’t stop his hand from spreading wide on Spencer’s hip to feel it, to hold him steady when his lips meet his fist and he knows Spencer can’t feel anything but how tight and hot and wet it is.

“The uh…Lassi…uh…General Cartwright is still… _Piña colada_! Is still going over the message from Lee…”

“Lincoln,” Carlton tears away to correct him, and then slides his mouth back down and swallows.

“Lincoln!” Spencer whimpers at the door, pushing Carlton’s head down and then yanking it back up. “Oh God yes Lincoln.” He didn’t realize Spencer could hit that pitch. “Come back in a few minutes. The…um…the…affairs of state must take pre…precedence over the…um…affairs of state.”

That sounds familiar somehow, but Peterson just coughs again.

Spencer is really trembling now, shuddering with each dip of Carlton’s head, gasping out unevenly when Carlton’s fist squeezes him just right.

That Peterson has to know is at the back of Carlton’s mind, but Spencer feels hot and violent under his hands, feels weak in his mouth, sounds crazy even to the sergeant at the door.

“Lassi,” he pants as quietly as he can, probably frowning, probably surprised, and Carlton shifts, presses in to bring Spencer off, right there, his mind just as crazy as Spencer’s, feverish with the need to make Spencer come, to shut his stupid mouth, to make him stop saying ridiculous things to Peterson. Just his name, that’s what he wants and he flicks his tongue, sucks hard, squeezes Spencer’s dick like he wants every drop.

“Thought you might want a song,” someone else is still talking, _just_ louder than the cry Spencer makes when Carlton pushes him over the edge. The yell burns along Carlton’s skin, down his body right to his cock, and he grunts as he tries to swallow the flood of semen. It burns inside too, sweet like victory at the blurred rush of words out of Spencer’s mouth, at hearing his name again, and the _moremoremore_ right before, Spencer’s body shaking and exhausted underneath him.

He is…he could fuck Spencer right now.

Carlton blinks at the realization, too aroused to blush, to do more than look up at the door of the tent and realize that Peterson’s silhouette is gone and that there is come on his cheek from when he finally pulled away. It only takes a second after that to remember that he had just obviously had sex in his tent, in his uniform, with another man, and that the Sergeant had clearly understood that. Christ. He’d swear out loud, but his mouth feels heavy, his lips sort of buzzing. He’d forgotten about that feeling.

Carlton traces his lips with his tongue, the act making his cock twitch. He’s still pressed right against Spencer, and Spencer sighs.

Now that he can think, his back is seriously starting to ache, from his position or from the fall earlier, or both. He straightens with a wince and then Spencer moves at last. For a moment, he’d honestly looked dead except for the rise and fall of his chest.

He blinks too, as he lifts his head at little, his mouth still open like he hadn’t even once thought of trying to keep it shut. Carlton narrows his eyes, waiting, but Spencer just blinks at him again and lowers his head.

“I…” _Don’t do things like this_ , Carlton starts to say, then stops, focusing on his sandwich, which has been crushed by either Spencer’s ass or his hands. Spencer’s meatball sub is of course, just fine at the other end of the table.

“There was a Mel Brooks Marathon on AMC yesterday,” Spencer remarks breathlessly, probably just to confuse him. Carlton shakes his head, then looks away as Spencer makes an effort to actually sit up.

And it does take him some effort. Carlton doesn’t stop his mouth from curving up, enjoying the stunned expression that’s lingering on Spencer’s face. It lasts until Spencer meets his eyes.

“You just gave me a blowjob with one your officers standing nearby,” he comments as though that means something and his knowing smirk returns no matter how out of breath he is.

Carlton stops, feels his dick pulse and jerk when Spencer directs that same knowing look at his lap, and scoots off the table.

“Spencer…” Sergeant Peterson is going to be back at any moment. Carlton puts a hand up, takes a step back, and has to sit down in the chair to keep from falling. He’s got Spencer straddling his legs a second later. If he didn’t know any better, he’d start to think that Spencer has been waiting for any chance to sit in his lap.

Spencer seems heavier now, slower; his usual quick hands stay at Carlton’s hips as he settles himself and the chair digs into the ground.

“Spencer,” he tries, as low as he can, and Spencer angles his head and rests his lips over his mouth, his breath hot.

“Carlton,” Spencer answers him seriously, bringing a hand to his coat, tugging at his loose collar. “Are these the pee-buttons?”

“I…What?” He knows he’s frowning, but gives up trying to figure out Spencer’s meaning when Spencer abandons his coat and moves his hand to the front of his trousers. His shifts his body up, his breath warm against Carlton’s cheek, and the chair creaks.

He doesn’t think it can hold both of them, and knows he’s right when Spencer has to slide his legs back to the ground. It’s a relief for half a second and then Spencer smiles down at him and Carlton realizes that he’s seen that smile before, on the stripper that Spencer had sent over to him.

There is still music playing from the regiment band outside, something familiar and yet wrong without electric guitar, but Spencer seems to recognize it. Carlton is halfway convinced he’s crazy for thinking Spencer would even know how to give him a lap dance when Spencer slides back into his lap, and rests his hands on his face, near his mouth.

His mouth is open, but Spencer’s smirk at seeing that fades as he runs his thumb over his bottom lip, which is still buzzing. Spencer’s thumb is dry, and Carlton licks his lip when it’s gone.

Spencer is still practically naked below his shirt, or close enough, his pants rumpled and his fly down.

“Spencer…” Carlton tries again, glancing at the door only to have Spencer “tsk” him again as he urges his head back. He angles his mouth close again, not really kissing him, and grins at Carlton’s scowl right before he sticks out his tongue and licks across Carlton’s cheek.

“Suspenders too?” he wonders as his hand moves under the bottom of Carlton’s coat and finds his undershirt, the suspenders. Spencer unhooks them without looking and though they aren’t elastic they snap back. Carlton sits up straighter, staring into Spencer’s face while the other man frowns lightly and tries to figure out the large inside button on Carlton’s trousers.

When he gets that, he ought to smile, because the weather was too warm for the traditional long underwear, and to be historically correct, Carlton hadn’t worn his usual underwear. He hadn’t worn _any_ underwear.

Spencer’s eyebrows jerk up for a moment, but then he lifts his other hand to the back of Carlton’s head, holding himself up with his arm at Carlton’s shoulder, gripping the chair.

“Nothing to say, Spencer?” Carlton has to say something when it’s obvious that he’s not even wearing boxers, clearing his throat just to speak then stopping when Spencer’s other hand curls around his dick and Spencer ducks his head without a word. His fingers find their way back into Carlton’s hair, cupping the back of his head, and Spencer buries his face into his uniform.

The sound of Spencer breathing hard is all Carlton can hear, his skin warm where they’re touching. Carlton frowns, tries to look, but all he can see is Spencer’s silly hair. Then Spencer runs his fingers across the crown of his cock and slides his fingers down the shaft, loose and teasing, making Carlton’s breath hiss from between his teeth. He does it again, until Carlton can feel the damp heat of his palm wrapped around him. Then Spencer tightens his hold.

Carlton hisses again, fighting to keep quiet, grabbing onto Spencer’s hips and thrusting as much as he can with Spencer’s weight on him. His body is tense, aching, hot beneath his heavy uniform, and Spencer is panting against his neck, his mouth open over his pulse.

He doesn’t know what new game this is, and doesn’t really care. Spencer isn’t asking for anything.

“Lassi,” Spencer says finally, still quiet in a way that is definitely freaky, considering that he’s stroking Carlton quickly, hard, and Carlton can’t stop clenching and unclenching his hands, from pulling Spencer to him. He shuts his eyes, then opens them. “I didn’t expect that,” Spencer adds, after another pause, and Carlton rolls his eyes and gasps for breath.

“So you don’t know everything.” He does his best to shrug and Spencer’s other hand tugs at his hair, as much like lightening as anything else Spencer does.

“I know enough.” Carlton can feel him smiling again, enjoying the weak grunt Carlton can’t keep back. Spencer’s grip is firm, knowing, not as good as his mouth, but fast. He pulls at his hair again, distracting, and licks at his neck.

“Carlton,” he whispers, and whatever Spencer thinks this is, Carlton doesn’t say a word when Spencer moves up to bite at his earlobe. His stubble is as rough as before, and when he takes his thumb and presses into the head of his cock again Carlton leans back and pushes up against Spencer’s legs, between his legs, into the heat of his lap. He says something, turning his head to find Spencer’s ear, and Spencer answers him, shaking out a laugh, then groaning and arching up.

He draws his tongue along Carlton’s cheek again, and Carlton catches him this time, sliding his hands up to Spencer’s head, holding him steady as he pants into his mouth, capturing his tongue. He thrust up again, rocking them both, and shuts his eyes tight, imagining.

He is going to fuck Shawn Spencer.

The thought spears through him brighter and hotter than any amount of hair pulling, sweet and sharp like Spencer’s mouth under his. Carlton gasps, grabbing onto Spencer tight, coming fast while Spencer strokes him and breathes heavily under his ear.

The chair creaks again before he goes still and Spencer slowly takes his hand away.

Something tickles at the back of Carlton’s head, Spencer’s fingers in his hair maybe, before Spencer pulls back and gets stiffly to his feet. Carlton’s eyebrows come together as he watches that, his scowl only getting worse when he sees the mess he made on Spencer’s uniform.

He has no idea what Spencer is thinking, or why for a second he feels like he ought to get up and pull Spencer back down onto his lap. Maybe because for a moment he looks young, like the crazy teenager who lived down his street growing up that his mother had always said was going to hell, because he had always seemed shy, but then somehow had always come home in police cars and grown his hair long and snuck out to meet girls.

Spencer pauses for a moment, shaking his wrist, then looking down at his splattered shirt.

Carlton abruptly gets to his feet and puts out his hands but Spencer is already buttoning up his coat to hide the mess. His skin is still flushed and there’s some sweat at his forehead, but otherwise Spencer looks normal enough to pass inspection. Like nothing had happened. Except that he has buttoned his coat all the way up to the neck and he suddenly looks like a real soldier.

Carlton opens his mouth and there’s another cough at the tent door.

“What _now_?” His voice is tight and, for whatever reason, Spencer’s lips quirk up. Carlton can feel his ability to be embarrassed return with a sudden drop in his stomach. “I’ll be right out,” he adds when the figure outside won’t go away. His jaw is still a bit sore, something he discovers when he tries to clench it.

“So…Spencer…” he tries as soon as he can level out his voice and Spencer glances up, shrugs, and makes his way back to the bag and his sandwich and his two juice drinks. His sandwich is probably cold. So much for lunch.

Carlton rubs at his face, which feels raw thanks to Spencer’s ever-present facial scruff, and steps over to quickly try to stick his mustache and beard back on. There’s enough spirit gum on them it should still stay in place, and possibly hide the worst of the burn he’s sure is on his face.

He needs to make sure Spencer shaves more often.

Which all implies something that’s going to happen again, just like Spencer had predicted, and which is…annoying. No, it’s more than annoying, it’s aggravating to think that Spencer was right, again, and he was going to end up doing just what Spencer wanted, like always.

Spencer’s bag is packed up and over his shoulder. But he’s not moving from his position by the door, his eyebrows up and the smile coming and going from his face. After a second of sharing a look, Spencer scratches at his nose.

“So…?” he asks, rolling one hand as though that’s encouraging at all. Carlton clears his throat, then shuts his mouth. Because Spencer doesn’t have to say anything. Carlton had just done exactly what he’d just said he didn’t do. That he would never do.

Just because Spencer did it all the time didn’t make it normal, and someone ought to show Spencer that.

“I like Thai,” Spencer volunteers helpfully. Hopefully, if Carlton is going to be honest.

“I prefer Italian,” he answers instantly. “What food don’t you like?” he adds after a small pause, then narrows his eyes because Spencer still isn’t saying anything. Isn’t arguing, isn’t babbling pop nonsense and waving at his supposedly clairvoyant brain. Carlton looks down again and tries to fry the table with a stare. It doesn’t work, but why would it?

Thai is spicy enough to give him heartburn no matter how good it is. There’s only two Thai places in town that he even likes, and only one them the kind of place that he’d want to sit and dine in. Dammit, he doesn’t even like shrimp. Thai is definitely an acquired taste. Only Spencer, who seems to like everything he comes across, would possibly find Thai food appealing on a regular basis.

Carlton sighs then brings his head up. “I know a place that makes good pineapple friend rice.”

Spencer coughs once, just like Peterson, and taps his fingers along the strap of the bag. Carlton feels each one like some twisted countdown and breathes hard.

“And?” Spencer says at last, and Carlton throws his hands up.

“I can eat there alone if you don’t want to go, Spencer,” he snarls at him and Spencer grins widely.

“So… _Thai Me Up, Thai Me Down_ tomorrow night at eight? The best rice in town…” Spencer calls out and gestures at Carlton’s hair, which, as soon as Carlton touches it, he realizes is a complete wreck. On account of Spencer.

“Tomorrow…?” he repeats blankly, remembering to refasten his pants at the same time. Spencer _would_ know the restaurant he’d been thinking of.

“I made reservations…” Spencer hops in place with what cannot be nervous energy and then tilts his head to one side. “Wear something…dark. You know, I don’t usually put out on the first date, Lass…well okay I do. But two is definitely special. Actually I don’t think I’ve ever had a second date…Maybe it’s my cologne.” He stops to frown and sniff cautiously at his shoulder.

“Two?” Carlton winces to hear himself and composes himself enough to glare, and Spencer’s cologne always smells expensive and surprisingly understated. “That’s because blowing people in restrooms isn’t a date, Spencer.” The cool addition makes Spencer stare over at him for a long moment, and then the man nods and speaks, his voice tight.

“Exactly, Lass, that’s the point. Gus is very insistent that this is the proper way. Meals and movies and possibly dancing with the intent of more than hot sex, though hot sex is of course acceptable. It’s all very complicated. Gus has a book with a lot of rules in it.” Spencer scrunches his forehead and honestly looks confused.

“What?” He’s going to pretend that Spencer hasn’t been discussing him with Guster, and his father, and whoever else he’s decided to take into his confidence. “I have a reputation, Spencer,” he says after that, and licks his still-buzzing lips. “I’m not risking it for some trick or game or half-assed idea of dating.”

Spencer’s breath hitches and Carlton shoots him another glare that somehow stretches until neither of them is speaking, and hasn’t been speaking for a long time.

He feels like he just got hit by a truck.

“What is this?” Carlton demands. Spencer’s eyes look gray now as he avoids his gaze and steps back out toward the light.

He just skips out of the tent a second later, yelling. “Lunch. Seriously, Lassi, maybe you ought to get some sleep.”

“Oh and I’ll get this back to the president…” he adds, far too loudly, when he sees Peterson outside the door, and smacks the damn bag for good measure. As though Peterson is fooled at all.

With one last obviously fake wink, Spencer disappears from view. He’s moving fast, even for Spencer.

Carlton knows his face is beet red, but coughs and turns to face Peterson anyway.

The man is waiting on him, with what has to be a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. That’s…surprising. Peterson is the Assistant Fire Chief when he’s not playing Carlton’s ADC. But Carlton’s hardly one to take any crap from a junior officer, as O’Hara had learned the hard way.

Carlton brings a hand up to his collar, then scowls and leaves the top few buttons unfastened, his skin still hot and scratched from the way Spencer had curled his fingers around his neck. His hat is on the ground again, and he swoops down to retrieve it, nearly gasping at he flare up at the base of his spine.

“The men are ready,” Peterson comments in a dry voice he could have gotten from Chief Vick herself. He waves a hand at the field, and then over toward Horatio, who’s waiting nearby.

“I don’t give a crap whether they’re ready or not. I am,” Carlton sneers at him and strides past him. He angles the hat back, with the brim high over his forehead, and grabs the reins before he swings himself back up into the saddle. He has to grit his teeth, but he does it.

His back twinges and Carlton sneers at that too just as the band starts up a new song.

“Come on, Sergeant,” he orders, staring up at the sunshine. “Let’s do this.”


End file.
